


A Punishment to Fit the Crime

by dreamsofspike



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 15:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike
Summary: Michael isn't retired for helping the humans escape. No, his captors have designed a far more appropriate punishment for him.Note: This idea just occurred to me after the last episode... I wrote it really quickly and it's not my best work ever, but I'm fairly happy with it and hope you all enjoy it! :) Please let me know what you think! :)Warnings: implied torture, violence, captivity, trauma, very mild though





	A Punishment to Fit the Crime

It’s his ability to solve one of the great human ethical mysteries that does it. For centuries humans have tried to solve the unsolvable Trolley Problem, and it’s Michael’s success that convinces the Judge to allow Eleanor to come back for him – to rescue him from the dark, miserable cell where he’s been locked away and take him with her to the real Good Place.

 

“It’s okay,” she says – softer, gentler than usual as she crouches down in front of him and carefully touches the reddened skin at his wrist. “I’m here now.”

 

He flinches away with a hiss of pain, because he doesn’t know how many hours he’s spent trying to twist free of the searing metal that binds him, and it _hurts_ when she touches it.

 

And Eleanor _smiles_ – not a sympathetic or kind smile but a cold, malicious one, and Michael’s heart sinks because… it isn’t real, isn’t _her_. His guess would be Vicky, because he knows she’d take such pleasure in turning his own techniques against him… but really it could be any of them. A fitting punishment for a failure and betrayal such as his – to torment him with a false version of what he most longs for.

 

Her fingers dig beneath the metal that bites into his wrist, fingernails cutting into raw, abraded flesh, and he tries uselessly to pull away.

 

“What’s the matter, babe?” she asks, sweet, concerned – too much, not at all convincing. “Don’t you want me to rescue you?”

 

“Stop it,” he whispers, turning his face. “You’re not her.”

 

Not-Eleanor laughs, vicious and sharp. “Gold star for you, Michael. You figured it out even quicker than she ever did.”

 

****************************************************************

 

It’s because he found a way to rescue the humans from the Bad Place – that’s why the Judge agrees to allow his four friends to come back and rescue him. Eleanor slips into his cell, anxiously glancing over her shoulder, her voice an urgent whisper as she crouches in front of him.

 

“Michael, hurry,” she instructs him, holding up a tiny key between her fingers. “Give me your hand.”

 

Michael swallows hard, glancing toward the door as he holds out his trembling wrist.

 

She abruptly grabs his hand, clasping it tight and pressing the key into his palm. Instinctively he tries to pull away, but she’s too strong, holding on as the tiny bit of metal glows red hot, searing through his skin with excruciating agony. He cries out, twists in her grasp, but her free hand clutches his throat and pushes him back against the wall, holding him there.

 

“You really think the Judge would ever let you into the Good Place?” she sneers. “ _Please_. You’re not even as ‘good’ as the human lowlifes you were supposed to torture. No one’s coming for you, Michael. Not Eleanor. No one. _Ever_.”

 

And the pain she inflicts after that is nothing compared to her words; Michael would gladly lose himself in the physical torture, if only it means he can forget what she said… forget that it’s true.

 

Eleanor and the others are hopefully safe in the Good Place by now.

 

And no one is _ever_ coming for him.

 

************************************************

 

It’s Michael’s sacrifice that does it – convinces the Judge to allow Eleanor to go back for him.

 

“Yeah, he’s done a lot of bad shit like torturing us for centuries and lying every other sentence out of his mouth and you know… being a demon,” she admits. “But – he was willing to accept torture and death for us, because we’re his friends. Because he cared more about us than his own life. And isn’t that like – the greatest love of all, or something?”

 

“That’s a Whitney Houston song,” the Judge intones, unimpressed. “However, I am… _intrigued_ by what you’ve told me of this demon, and the choice he’s made. You may go and bring him back here with you.”

 

Eleanor passes back through the portal, surrounded by an electric glow of power that keeps all the demons at bay. They shrink back away from her rather than attacking, and she realizes that she’s protected – some kind of parting gift or good will gesture from the Judge.

 

She isn’t sure where to look for Michael – and then she sees Vicky.

 

She grabs her when she tries to back away, kind of enjoying the way she shrinks back, closing her eyes against the bright light that emanates from Eleanor’s tarnished soul. Eleanor yanks Vicky in close, exhilarated by the unexpected rush of strength she feels – another gift from the Judge, apparently.

 

She leans into Vicky’s face, her voice quiet and intimidating. “ _Where is he_?”

 

“Okay, easy!” Vicky protests, fear in her eyes. “I’ll take you to him, just – relax…” She swallows hard, glancing furtively up at Eleanor before looking down again and adding in a small, frightened voice, “Don’t hurt me…”

 

“No promises,” Eleanor snaps, and doesn’t let go of Vicky’s arm as Vicky leads her down into a dark, underground dungeon which is pretty much exactly the kind of place she’s been imagining Michael in every moment since he pushed her into that portal.

 

Vicky stops in front of a cell with a stone door, taking out a key and unlocking it with trembling fingers. When Eleanor sees Michael, she lets go of Vicky without thinking, and Vicky bolts, probably running off to get some kind of back-up.

 

It doesn’t matter; Eleanor knows there’s nothing anyone here can do to her.

 

And now there’s nothing any of them can do to _him_ , either.

 

He’s huddled on the floor against the wall, bruised and trembling, his clothes torn and dirty, his wrists bound with chains attached to the wall behind him, leaving him little room for movement. She cautiously approaches, and he looks up at the sound of her footsteps. She doesn’t expect the way his face falls, his eyes haunted with dread as he buries his face in his folded arms and shakes his head.

 

“Don’t,” he groans, weary and pleading. “Not again, no more. Be someone else. _Be someone else_.”

 

“Michael,” Eleanor says softly, crouching in front of him and reaching out to take his hands. “Michael, it’s me…”

 

“No, it’s not,” he objects, his voice cracked and hoarse, resistant, refusing to look up at her. “You’re not her…”

 

She uses her temporary extra strength to gently pull his hands down, away from his face. He swallows hard, eyes tightly shut as he turns his face away – but his shoulders quake and fall with defeat, a quiet sob escaping his lips.

 

“Please,” he whispers. “Please don’t…”

 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she insists. “Michael, it’s me. It’s really me. _Look_ at me…”

 

He flinches, but then obeys, the dread in his eyes telling her he’s only doing it because he fears the consequences of disobedience. He studies her for a long moment, frowning, uncertain.

 

“I talked to the Judge – told him what you did. He said you can come with us to the Good Place…”

 

Michael shakes his head, looking away. “No,” he argues, heavy with disappointment. “That’s a lie. I don’t – don’t deserve…”

 

“And _I do_?” Eleanor snorts. “Come on, Michael. You were willing to fucking _die_ for us – for _me_. And you know – I wanna say I’d do the same thing for you, and I really hope I would, but – it’s kinda hard to say.” He looks up at her, dubious, and she smiles, shrugs a little. “Yeah, I came back for you, but – seeing how I’ve got magic powers at the moment and nothing here can hurt me anyway… guess we’ll never know.”

 

Michael’s confused frown slowly fades, realization dawning in his eyes. “ _Eleanor_?”

 

She grins, laughs with relief as he stops resisting her hands, and she can finally unlock the chains that bind him to the wall behind him. “Yeah, buddy, it’s me. Who’d you think it was?”

 

He doesn’t answer, just stares at her for a long moment. She’s dismayed and alarmed when Michael abruptly falls apart, collapsing forward into her arms, sobbing against her shoulder. His shaking hands clench in the waist of her dress, and she falls forward onto her knees, instinctively wrapping her arms around him.

 

“It’s just that you were here so many times, and you _weren’t_ you, and I didn’t know… I couldn’t…”

 

He’s breathless, gasping, all sharp-edged panic and pain and relief, and she just holds him, raising one hand to brush through his hair, trying her best to soothe him – though nothing he’s saying in any way resembles anything making sense.

 

“Well, I’m here now, and I _am_ me. Promise.”

 

She manages to disentangle herself from his arms, pulling him up with her as she rises to her feet. She frowns, a hot rush of anger running through her at the way he favors one leg as he stands – at the bruises that cover his face and arms – and she wishes she hadn’t let Vicky run away so quickly. She should probably be above things like revenge at this point, especially if she’s about to be an actual resident of the actual Good Place.

 

She’s not, though.

 

Once they’re safe, she’s gonna find a way to make Vicky and Shaun and the others pay for what they’ve done.

 

“Come on, Michael,” she says softly, ducking under his arm and helping to support his weight. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go home.”


End file.
